


to darkness I lose everything

by lilabut



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, F/M, Major Character Injury, evil!katrina and henry working together, or cursed!katrina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbie's betrayed face is the last thing Ichabod sees before Katrina's rage sets the night aflame.<br/>Inspired by the promo for 2x17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to darkness I lose everything

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this when I watched the promo for next week's episode, 2x17. I also needed Ichabod to have a wake-up moment, and this is it.

The blast is deafening, fading into dull silence the second it ruptures through the night's cold air. In that silence - in the wake of the explosion - there is the faint echo of crackling flames, a sharp ring that turns and turns in his head until it forms the most torturing of melodies (much like an agonized wail, the last breaths of a poor, condemned creature wasted singing in false hope for a promise of light), and somewhere beneath all of it, the desperate echo of his own voice.

 

There is nothing, a void opening up. Time stands still as the world pauses. It is a blur of licking flames dancing wickedly behind a treacherous veil of smoke, the dark of the night swallowing even the purest light of the stars until only hellfire remains.

 

For a single moment, the world ends.

 

Until the void opens, baring bloody teeth and reaching for him with crooked claws.

 

Pain shoots through Ichabod where he finds himself on the rough ground, the warmth of his own blood seeping through his trousers where he has fallen. There seems to be no air left in his lungs, and when he finally wills himself to gulp in a deep breath, he can taste the ash that clouds the air sharply on his tongue. His brain registers the unbearable pain when he pushes his scraped and bleeding palms firmly against the ground to push himself up, but he bans it into the furthest corner of his mind, scrambles to his feet instead, as unsteady as his legs may feel.

 

This is not hell, is not even the closest he has ever come to it. The world has not stopped turning, they have not failed their mission. They... _Abbie_ , he mutters under his breath, feeling the word more than hearing it as his voice breaks. The air is too thick, too warm, and as the heat consumes him from the inside, he suddenly remembers everything.

 

Katrina and Henry have disappeared, but Ichabod spends not a moment wondering where they have gone, what they are still planning to do, fights to push away all thoughts of his son's black blood fueled by hatred, vengeance and darkness, nor can he think of the wife he has loved so dearly and with all his heart once upon a time, long ago. Much longer than when she turned her own heart towards the path of darkness.

 

A path he has worked so hard to lay to ash. They have. _Abbie_ , he repeats, a cough more than a word now, his feet stumbling towards the burning wreck of her car, engulfed by flames - flames that his wife had conjured in her blindness and inexplicable desire for something he could neither give nor understand.

 

The flames are too bright, too hot, too high, and this deserted road on the outskirts of the small and oblivious town may as well be the hell all written word has ever imagined. Pain, heat, hopelessness, every step a punishment, a stumble leaving behind its angry trail of blood.

 

He can still see her face, Abbie's disappointment as she had looked at him from behind the car's open door, her faith in him perhaps forever shattered - all because of a moment's hesitation. All because, in a deep place of his heart, Henry was his son and Katrina the woman he had married, and there, hidden beneath all manner and determination, he was a father and a husband, betrayed and broken. But Abbie could not see that deeply behind the walls around his heart, and she had only registered his moment of doubt.

 

It is only now as he trips over debris and fights for control over his own limbs that he recognizes that he has lingered too long, has hesitated too often, has doubted too much since the day he left Abbie behind in Purgatory. Because he did leave her behind, no matter how hard she tries to take the blame upon herself, to make it her choice. The betrayal that was foretold, it may not have hit them with a blow that day, but it traced through their actions ever since like a thin red line. A thread he could only see now, when Abbie had noticed so much earlier.

 

One more step and a numbing, invisible weight presses down on his chest. Two more steps and he can no longer ignore the pain that claws its way through his body. Three more steps and he tastes blood. Four more steps until he sees her. _Abbie_.

 

All his life, before and after he had been killed on the battlefield and buried in the ground, he has clung to his memory as his strength, the crystal clear imprints of everything he has ever seen, heard, smelled of touched. But in this moment, it is his memory that betrays him. He can still see Abbie climbing into her car with disappointment in her eyes, seconds before Katrina's flames lit up the night. As clear as he can hear the flames crackling now he remembers the explosion, the way it shook the ground.

 

As he falls down onto his knees next to Abbie, all understanding of why she is now laying so far away from the car blurs in his mind. So many times he has thought her lost (the emptiness inside of him as he pulled her lifeless body from the water. the look of resignation and faint betrayal in her eyes when he left purgatory without her. the brief moment his heart stopped beating whenever another demonic creatures comes too close. the exact moment the bullet hit her, a sharp pain in his heart as though he himself had been shot). Every time she has fought her way back to him.

 

 _Abbie. Abbie_. His raw and bloody palms find her cheeks, cup her face so he can look into her eyes. For a moment, he sees nothing in them but the flames' reflection flickering angrily, but then something shifts in them, and only when her lips twitch into a weak smile does he feel his heart pick up the beat.

 

 _Crane_. There is blood. Too much blood. It pools beneath her, angry and crimson, and even in the warm pools he can see the flames' reflection laughing wickedly and grotesquely back at him. Her voice, however, sounds remarkably strong and firm. _Where are they?_

 

(what is she talking about - why is there so much blood and why is she so calm - the heat of the flames is creeping towards them - is she in pain - is there anything I can do - what does it matter where they are - what does the world matter when her life is at stake) Ichabod can barely make sense of the storm in his mind, finds her hand instead where it rests against the hard ground. _I do not know_. Against her terrifyingly cold skin, he can feel the heat of his scraped palms, his own blood coating her hand. _They have fled_.

 

In the distance, he can hear sirens echoing in the night, coming closer. Without a doubt, the explosion must have been heard and seen even over the short distance. But not even the increasing noise can ease his helplessness. He does not dare to move her, not without knowing where all the blood is coming from, and his eyes are beginning to play tricks on him, stars obscuring his vision. They should be speckling the night sky, not Abbie's suddenly worried face. _You have to find them, Crane_. Her eyes are brimming with determination, but her voice seems to falter slowly, clear words fading into muttered ones.

 

Ichabod squeezes her hand tighter, moves himself closer, feels the warmth of her blood soaking the fabric of his trousers, already stained from his own wounds. _No, I'm not leaving you behind_. Each word is emphasized by the urgent shaking of his head. In his heart, splinters of memories are piercing him (the tears she had refused to shed, the brave mask she had put on, his own indecision, her small body in his arms, their enemy's thunderous voice echoing in the small church, time and space cracking like a mirror until she was gone). _Not again_. Whatever dark plans his wife and son might have, they have been stopped for now. They have destroyed the bell, together. Together. _Never again._

 

Abbie smiles at his words, the sort of smile that demands an 'I told you so', but she never says it. _S'not your fault_. He is terrified by the weak way in which she responds to his urgent squeeze of her hand. In a way, it feels as though, as long as he holds on to her this tightly, she can not slip away from him, slip away into that darkness - the one moment of his life he can only vaguely remember: his death. Darkness is the only flicker he can recall, and he can not lose her to it. Can not bear the pain of even imagining it.

 

 _I failed you, Abbie_ , he whispers, his throat aching with every breath, and he is suddenly so much closer to her, his other hand still cradling her face. The weight of his guilt, of his doubt in their bond and their purpose, it weighs him down, makes it even harder to breathe. _Please forgive me_. She is cold underneath his touch, immobile but for her eyes, dark eyes that find him amidst the sea of stars above her.

 

 _Don't call me..._ He can hardly understand her, even now that he is close enough to feel her unsteady breath on his skin. The broken syllables are almost muted by the flames and the sirens, but he fights to understand. _You only... when you think..._ Her fingers slip between his, slowly and with great difficulty, entwining their fingers until Ichabod's blood seeps through the tiny spaces in between. _will die._

 

The echo of her voice leaves a rotten taste lingering in the air, and it fills Ichabod's lungs as thickly and poisonously as the smoke. This is not how they will end, how their fight is lost. As clearly as the day he heard it spoken, he remembers the prophecy, that he would deliver her soul, that they would turn on each other. Perhaps that day would come, perhaps even the strongest of bonds could be severed by the darkness of judgment day. But while there is still light and hope and strength in his bones, he will make sure it never comes true (again). Abbie will neither die at his hands, nor at his fault.

 

 _You will live, lieutenant_ , he replies fiercely, warmth spreading through him when Abbie's lips form another weak smile at his last word. It is a different kind of warmth from the fire and the blood, and he wonders briefly how it can all be so different, the world and everything in it. He loves Katrina, but his love for her makes his blood run cold. He loves Abbie, in a way he has no means to understand, and it makes his blood pump faster, his legs push harder, his will turn stronger. He has no place in this world without her. _It is the two of us. The bible foretells two witnesses. You and me._

 

 _You and me until... end of days_. Abbie laughs at her own whispered words, a throaty and disfigured sound that makes Ichabod long for days long gone, when neither of them felt weighed down by the fate of the world (but even then her words would have been nothing but a joke, hinting at a veiled future neither of them could map out). Still, her effort is infectious, and he laughs bitterly, his fingers lightly brushing across her cool skin. His lips find her forehead, pressing gently against it, if only to hear her soft sigh, feel her squeeze his fingers a little more firmly with her own.

 

The noise of the sirens grows almost painfully loud, mingling now with the sound of tires on the road. It hurts and soothes all the same, knowing that help is near. Suddenly, Ichabod feels something warm against his thumb, smooth and liquid, coating his skin.

 

He almost does not dare to look, pulls away slowly and only just barely. Too great is the fear of what he might see, too strong the pull to keep her close and hold on to her so she will not fade away, be pulled into darkness. But when he does look down, he sees dark blood trickling past her lips, meeting his thumb where it rests against her cheek. Her breathing is ragged, and he can feel his own lungs screaming when she takes in one more rattling breath. _Find them, Ichabod._


End file.
